


In Which Les Amis Are So Done

by Murf1307



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Locked In, M/M, Meddling, Miscommunication, Mumford & Sons references, Pining, Richard Siken references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is convinced Grantaire hates him.  Grantaire is convinced of the reverse.  And their friends are sick of dealing with the consequences of that little miscommunication.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Les Amis Are So Done

**Author's Note:**

> written for [myrtlewilson](http://myrtlewilson.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, because she wanted Smitten!jolras. I provided.

Combeferre is  _frustrated._   Courfeyrac is  _irritated._   

Enjolras and Grantaire are  _oblivious._

The problem is this: everyone but Enjolras himself can tell that Grantaire is head-over-heels, ass-over-teakettle in love with the blond, and everyone but Grantaire can tell that those feelings are reciprocated.

“He thinks Grantaire hates him,” Combeferre groans, curling up next to Courfeyrac.  ”Because of all the fighting they do.”

“Oh God,” Courfeyrac says, running his hand over his face tiredly.  

“We are literally going to have to make picket signs for this, aren’t we?” Bahorel mutters from the corner, looking almost resigned to the inevitability of it all.

Combeferre almost laughs.  ”They’d probably just wind up looking at us like we’d lost our heads.”

“True, true,” Courfeyrac says, but Combeferre knows this: Courfeyrac is formulating a Plan.

This is not going to end well.

 

—————

“What do you mean,  _communicate?_ ” Enjolras yells through the locked door.  He has no idea what his friends are trying to do, locking him in here with Grantaire, with no means of escape and no idea what he’s supposed to be doing.

After all, he and Grantaire aren’t even fighting right now.

“Use.  Your.  Words.”  That’s Combeferre’s voice, imperious and clearly at the end of his rope about  _something._

And then it hits Enjolras.

Combeferre wants him to  _confess._

Ice fills Enjolras’s insides at the thought.  There is no way this can end well.  Grantaire must hate him by now, with how fiercely they fight and how awful Enjolras can be.  

“Well, Apollo?” Grantaire asks, drawing his attention again.  Grantaire seems to have resigned himself to his fate, and is leaning by the open window (three stories up and nowhere near a fire escape) with a cigarette dangling from his fingers.  ”Communication.”

“There’s nothing to  _communicate,_ ” Enjolras insists, even as his stomach flips over at the way muscles in Grantaire’s chest ripple when he takes a drag from that cigarette.  ”We’re not even fighting.  Things are okay.”

“I would agree with you there.  Unfortunately, our friends are toeing some other party line, it looks like.”  Grantaire only seems mildly irritated.

Enjolras sinks down the door and sits on the floor.  There’s a couch against a wall, but he doesn’t feel he even has the energy to go to it.  He’s trapped with Grantaire in a room, and the only way out is to ruin even this tentative peace.

He can’t do that.  He  _can’t._

Because which fight is going to be the one that finally drives Grantaire away?  When is Enjolras going to finally make him leave?

The thought terrifies him.  He’s been trying not to fight, but Grantaire’s so  _good_  at getting to him, at making him  _angry_ , and more often than not he can’t help himself.  It’s habit.  It’s them.

“ _do not ask the price i pay,_ ” Grantaire hums almost under his breath.

“You listen to Mumford and Sons?” Enjolras asks tentatively.  Maybe this will help.  He knows Grantaire does, but maybe this will be enough.  Maybe if they talk about something that isn’t politics, Combeferre and the others will take pity on him and let them go.

—————

Grantaire is going to kill all of them when he gets out of this room.  Every single one.  

The worst part is that they think they’re helping, locking him in here with Enjolras, as though time spent together will somehow keep them from fighting.  As if exposure will make Enjolras hate him less.

Because Enjolras must hate him.  They fight like dogs over the ideals Enjolras holds the most dear, after all, and neither of them pull punches.  There are scabbed-over wounds in Grantaire’s heart from all of this, but Grantaire keeps coming back.  He can’t stop himself.  Because the others are his friends, but every painting since meeting Enjolras has been suffused with gold and scarlet.

He can’t leave.  He’s in too far, and has been since the moment he laid eyes on him.

When Enjolras asks him about Mumford and Sons, Grantaire almost drops his cigarette.  He stubs it out on the windowsill.

“Yeah.  One of my favorite bands.  You?”

“I like a few of their songs.”  There’s something Grantaire can’t figure out in Enjolras’s expression, something hesitant and scared.

Grantaire wants to melt back into the wall and disappear.

“Which ones?” he asks instead, because he is an idiot who will clutch at any straw he sees even though he doesn’t believe in hoping anymore.

Enjolras bites his lip.  ”Um, well.  I like ‘Dust Bowl Dance,’ and ‘Awake My Soul.’  Pretty much the whole  _Sigh No More_  album?”  He sounds a little reluctant to admit it, and Grantaire’s not sure why.

It’s a good album, if not something Grantaire would’ve expected him to listen to.  

There’s a moment of silence.  Then Grantaire starts again, not wanting the conversation to end.  ”So, uh, what do you like about them?”

Enjolras flushes and bites at his lip.

Grantaire’s not expecting what he says next, soft and tumbling out of Enjolras’s mouth like he doesn’t mean to say them:

“They remind me of you.”

—————

Enjolras hadn’t meant to say it, but he says it anyway, and then flinches.

God, that was as close to a confession that he can possibly get, isn’t it? He listens to Grantaire’s favorite band because it reminds him of Grantaire, and god, he’d actually  _admitted to it._

“Sorry,” he mumbles after a moment of silence, not looking at Grantaire. “That was probably the creepiest thing I’ve ever said.”

“You…you like Mumford and Sons because they remind you of  _me?_ ” Grantaire asked carefully.  ”Should I be upset about that?  You’re acting like I should be upset about this.”

Enjolras blinks.  ”They’re not exactly the happiest band to be associated with, are they?” he grumbles, curling up a little tighter, drawing his knees up to his chest.  ”And it’s probably creepy that I associate you with a band at all, I mean, you don’t even like me.”

He winces again, still refusing to look at Grantaire.  He’s going to wind up with his whole leg down his throat at this rate.

Grantaire laughs, and it almost sounds hysterical.  ”Y-you think I don’t like you?” he asks.  ”Jesus Christ, you think I don’t like you.”

“Wait — what does that mean?” Enjolras asks, finally looking at Grantaire.

Grantaire’s eyes meet his, and Enjolras swallows, because Grantaire doesn’t look mad at him, doesn’t look like he hates him, and Enjolras thinks he understands why Grantaire is so utterly against hoping.

Because if this ends badly, he’s not going to be able to handle it well after hoping.

“Uh,” Grantaire manages, blushing now himself.  ”You’re wrong about that.  About me not liking you.  I like you fine.  I just — I’m awful, aren’t I?”

“You’re not,” Enjolras mumbles.  ”You’re really not.”

Grantaire looks down at his shoes.  ”We’re always fighting, though.  I’m downright nasty sometimes.”

“I’m worse.  I — god, Grantaire, some of the things I’ve said to you…I would never forgive me, if I were in your shoes,” Enjolras says, standing up.  ”I’m surprised you stick around.”

Grantaire winces.  ”Do you — do you want me to leave?”

“No!”  Enjolras almost yelps it.  ”No, please don’t — I mean, unless you want to, if you want to then you can of course, you should put yourself first and if I’m fucking up then you should probably go but only if that’s what you want oh shit now I’m talking in circles.”

He turns away, hiding his face against the door.

“You know, you’re kind of adorable when you’re flustered,” Grantaire says quietly.  ”Sorry, I — that was probably out of line.”

Enjolras blushes darker, throat dry as he turns back to look at Grantaire.  ”I, um.  I don’t mind.”

“Oh.”  Grantaire looks a little gobsmacked.  

“I don’t want to fight,” Enjolras says, changing the subject.  ”Um, not about this.  Or really about the other things, but we can’t seem to stop that from happening.”

“I want you to win, every time,” Grantaire admits.  ”I really do want you to change the world.”

Enjolras smiles a little.  ”Thanks.”

Grantaire smiles back, fidgeting.  ”You’re welcome.”

“So, um.  We should probably just lay it out?” Enjolras manages.  ”I like you a lot and I’m kind of a terrible person, but I don’t want you to leave.”

Grantaire fidgets again.  ”You like me a lot?”  His smile widens a little.

Enjolras has to swallow around the knot in his throat.  ”Yeah.”

“Okay.”  Grantaire looks off to the side, past Enjolras’s shoulder to bore his gaze into the wall.  ”I…I like you a lot, too.  And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay.”  Enjolras pushes off the wall, taking a hesitant step forward.  ”Um.  Thank you for not hating me?”

Grantaire laughs.  ”I guess, and vice versa.”

“I don’t think I could hate you if I tried,” Enjolras says, flushing bright red by now.  ”And I don’t think I would ever want to try.”

“You should probably stop saying that,” Grantaire mutters.  ”I — I’m going to make you hate me someday, ‘s just how the world works.”  He looks down at the floor.  ”From my experience.”

Enjolras moves a little closer.  ”That could change.”

“You say that about everything.”

“And then I try to change it, in case you haven’t noticed.”  Enjolras makes his way to the other side of the room, his posture as loose as he can make it.  

Grantaire laughs, a little breathlessly.  ”Try being the operative.”

“You never know for sure otherwise,” Enjolras rebuts, staying where he is now.  It’s Grantaire’s turn now to do something.

—————

Grantaire has no idea what to do.

Enjolras is just there, just within arms reach if he dares, and he wants to.  He wants to reach out and touch him  _so badly._   

But he can’t.  He can’t risk it, not now, not for this.

Because when it ends — and it will end, no matter how optimistic Enjolras is, Grantaire can be terrible, is terrible, and will someday drive him away.  He won’t mean to (dear  _god_  no), but it’s going to happen.

When it ends, it’s going to destroy him.

So Grantaire swallows and turns a little away.  ”But what happens ‘if’ it goes wrong?” he asks, a little plaintive.

“Then I try to fix it.  You know me, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and there’s an ache in his voice because they both know it’s true.  ”I — I think I would do anything to fix it, if I broke it.”

“You won’t be the one to break it, though.  You know  _me._ ”  Grantaire looks at him again, and Enjolras looks sad, god, he looks miserable.

Enjolras shakes his head.  ”I know you’re loyal to the core and frighteningly intelligent and one of the kindest people I’ve ever known,” he says.  ”I know you’re beyond even patient — being a cynic trapped in a group full of idealists.  We’re beyond irritating, I know we must be.”

He pauses.  ”I know that losing you in any capacity would damn near kill me.”

Grantaire takes in a broken lungful of air, his heart thudding against his ribs.  ”You’d live, I know you would.  You’re stronger than that.”   _Than me_  hangs unsaid.

“I’ve never been in love before,” Enjolras confesses, and there it is.  Grantaire tries to screw his eyes shut against it, and leans heavily on the wall.  

Enjolras thinks he loves him.

“But I’m sure this is what it feels like.”  Enjolras is quiet, and it feels like this is becoming a speech.  ”Because when we’re fighting, God, it makes me feel so alive, and then I realize what I’ve done and want to hit myself for hurting you, and I go listen to that stupid CD until I feel like I’m going to cry.  And I stare at my phone, hoping that you’ll text me or something, even though you never have reason to, and I look at you and I can’t stop  _feeling things_  and I don’t think I even have a name for them.”

Grantaire keeps his eyes shut because he can feel tears straining to get out.  Because Enjolras is mirroring his own emotions in every exactitude and it frightens him.

Because this  _thing_ , this thing they’re both feeling is dangerous and it could destroy them both.

Enjolras sounds raw when he continues.  ”I talked to  _Jehan_  about it.  He — he said it was like poetry.  Like that one poet, the one with that, that “Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.”

“ _Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love.  It’s like a religion.  It’s terrifying._ ” Grantaire mumbles, because he knows that poem and that poet and he’s the one who first recommended him to Jehan in the first place and it’s coming back to bite him in the ass now.

“I don’t want to be afraid,” Enjolras whispers.  ”I think it’s the waiting that scares me, and — and, not knowing.”

“Not knowing?” Grantaire asks cautiously, opening his eyes. Enjolras is staring at him, beautiful and broken open and looking just on this side of tears.

“I thought you hated me, and I — I couldn’t say anything, and now we’re standing here and I still don’t know how you feel, because we both said we liked each other but that’s not exactly true on my end because — because I just told you everything.” Enjolras tugs on a lock of his own hair, and that’s the breaking point.

Grantaire  _has_  to reach for him now, and he does.

—————

Enjolras falls against Grantaire, his own hands spasming once before coming up to wrap his arms around his neck.

Grantaire pauses, then pulls them flush together, holding him tightly around the waist.  He mumbles nothing, just incoherent syllables, into Enjolras’s ear and leaves a kiss against his hair.

“I…” he manages after a long moment.  ”What you described.  I feel it, too.”

A rush thunders through Enjolras then, and he tightens his own hold on Grantaire, turning his head to bury his face in his neck.  ”Thank you, thank you for telling me.”

Grantaire laughs a little, a shy, broken little noise.  ”You’re welcome.”

Enjolras leans back a little, just enough to ask, “Can I kiss you?”

Grantaire’s eyes widen a little, as though he still can hardly believe Enjolras is asking, and then he nods.

Enjolras presses their lips together softly.  It’s not his first kiss (there was that one girl in junior high and then Combeferre once when they were both drunk and pining over people they thought they couldn’t have) but it’s probably his most important, so he tries to make it good.

He seems to be doing all right, because Grantaire is making this soft, strangled little noise in the back of his throat and his lips are parting.

Enjolras kisses him a little harder for that, and Grantaire’s arms crawl up his back to tangle a little in his hair.  It’s not the most comfortable position they could possibly be in, but it’s more than enough for him right now.

When he needs to breathe, he only pulls back enough to tip their foreheads against each other.

“Was that okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, breathless.  Enjolras can feel both their hearts beating fast in their chests.  ”More than.”

“Good,” Enjolras mumbles back, and blushes.  ”Do you wanna move over to the couch?

As it turns out, Grantaire does.

—————

When the  _riveting_  soap opera that is Enjolras and Grantaire’s feelings derails into making out that is obviously going to last awhile, Les Amis start to disperse.

Courfeyrac smirks at Combeferre triumphantly.  ”Told you so.”

“Enjolras still said it first.  You owe me fifteen for that.”

“Screw you,” Courfeyrac responds without any real rancor, and passes him the money.  ”You and your ridiculous ability to predict the future.”

Combeferre smiles and throws an arm over his friend’s shoulder.

“Now let’s go get some coffee and watch Marius trip over his own feet trying to talk to the barista,” he says.

Courfeyrac lights up.  ”That is the best idea you have ever had.”


End file.
